Lokison
by ringaroundadarkchildren'sgame
Summary: The story isn't over, my sweets. Facing Loki is one thing, but to tangle with his beast-children is quite another. And oh, how Fury has tangled the web. And oh, how the streets will run with blood. HelaFenrirJormungandr fic, slight pairings if you squint. M for later violence and much swearing.
1. I am introduced

Erhem. Hi there. This is not my first fic, but I seem to have locked myself out of my old account. Luckily for me, those fics were written a while back, and I have since gained a little finness (I hope.) Please be dears and review. As a warning, you probably won't get some of these references if you don't know a vague outline of Norse mythology, so I suggest Wikipedia-ing (?) all things related to Loki (his later schemes, at least. Alright? Great! I hope you enjoy this, let me know if I characterized Loki ok.

It was only natural that Loki escape once he and his un-brother hit Asgard, slipping out of his muzzle in the form of a snake once unchained due to a tearful look, buzzing past Thor's ear, now a gnat, as a shout of alarm gave out, soldiers searching for a serpent that un-was. For Loki Liesmith, shifter of Matter and Space, was not one thing but Infinite Things, his current form but a different pattern of energy that could be twisted for his own amusement. Loki was an anti-Aesir, a thing not of fire and wind, but of ice and smoke. Things which take many shapes while shapeless. Things which cannot be held at will.

He took to the mountains, made of crevices and tunnels and Secret Places that Loki assumed only_ he_ knew about, discovered in old and dusty texts only _he_ had bothered to read. Cowardly, they would call him, he was sure. Swiftness was weak compared to strength in the eyes of Asgardians. Which mattered not- he was no Asgardian. Nor, he was quite sure, was he Jotun, though his heart he now knew was the blackest of blues, and his blood bled white when undisguised by a now-unconscious glamour. He was an un-thing, occupying negative spaces, spaces which Thor promptly filled to the brim with his _himness_. But there was no time to linger on such things as he fled in the guise of a swift-footed buck, no time to linger on the fragile betrayed look which flickered across the thunder-god's face before rage took hold, no time to imagine the pain of his un-father and mother –for Frigga would _always _be Loki's mother, no matter what- when they heard what their not-son had done with his newly Opened Eyes. Oh yes, he was probably mad. But madness, he had found, was simply what happened when the gauze- gauze wrapped around every thing's eyes since birth- was lifted. Madness was Truth.

The buck sprung into the air at the base of the mountain range, shifting into a duck as he took to the air. Why not a raven or falcon? one may ask. A duck seems rather foolish and lumpy in comparison. But Loki knew he must travel a great distance upon wing, a thing which swiftness in itself could not accomplish. Loki needed power, and migrating birds were, in fact, the most powerful when it came to such tasks. Only great fools – _fools such as Thor_- would choose grand appearance over sensibility. Especially during flight in both senses of the word.

And Loki flew.

An admittance- he _did _shift into a raven once he got closer to his destination. Theatrics won out over sensibility, a personal quirk of his.

Once settled, he started to plot. The other gods were coming- he could sense then even now, without even sending out searching feelers of magic, so loud was their presence. He was near a stream- a further escape route, if needed. He had once found pleasure in taking to the Sea – the one which overlapped into Midgard in some places- slickly shifting into this creature or that, now a tuna, a stingray, a shark. He had played games with his eldest son, bloody games of catch and hunt and hide with unwilling prey, slipping through chaotic waves in the form of an orca, a swordfish. Until his son had grown too large, more sea draco than snake. Until Asgard saw it fit to chain him at the deepest, darkest bottom, his long body twisted into knots of discomfort, he vast, round eyes slowly eaten away by krill.

Loki was younger, then. Man of mischief rather than mayhem. God of the Naïve.

He fought a rolling wave of rage which formed in the pit of his stomach, flooding ice-blood veins, clenching teeth and stiffening shoulders. He fought it back down into a tiny seed of discontent, as he was so apt at doing. His boiling face calmed into that of a smooth, placid lake. Calm, emotionless mask . They would pay, he knew. Promised himself. They would beg for agony after he was through. Death would be but a sweet promise. He would tear their minds to shreds, chew on their souls and spit them out, leaving them the crumpling heaps that they once were. That would be vindication for not kneeling before [loving] him.

_Ah, but love is for children_

_Burning, screaming children, flesh warped and blackened by flame._

For now, he would flee, crouched within shadow. A good plan took deliberation. He stared into the smoke of his fire, lost in the chaotic formation. How was it that smoke was straight as an arrow one moment, and as twisted as a maze the next? For this was the nature of mayhem- all was well, until it wasn't. So entranced was Loki as his fractured mind sought solace in simple un-things that he almost did not sense the gods approach. But his eyes snapped from their rolled-back position and he quickly doused his flame with a few words, diving with nary a ripple into the nearby stream, now a salmon fish.

This, dear reader, was an important moment, which I'm sure you are all familiar with if you but glanced at Norse myth. Thor and his chums, the Warriors Three, as well Lady Sif, landed their pegusai near the stream. Of course, you humans tend to gloss it up a bit, but what transgressed afterward was as followed: Thor, screaming in rage and confusion, unsure as of what to do. Sif pointing to the still burning embers, and then the stream, suggesting Loki may have shifted into a fish to avoid capture. Volstagg nonchalantly reaching for the half-eaten roasted hare, remarking that such food should not go to waste. Hogun slapping his hand away. Sif suggesting that perhaps they should use a net to reel said fish in. Fandral agreeing with Sif's chest. Fandral getting slapped. Thor now in a near-berserk rage, screaming at the water and subsequently scaring all the fish, but one. Thor and the salmon sharing a look. The salmon taking off. Thor grabbing it out of the water with a very unThor-like quickness. The salmon becoming Loki once more, shivering slightly but face proud. The brothers stare, eye to eye, blue to silver-green, sky to frost-covered ground. The knock-out punch.

The chains, and the venom.

And while all of this occurred, an upheaval of the throne of Niffelheim, land of mist and shadow.

Oh, but you have not heard? Your myths regarding Hel deceive you. And, really, you deserve to be deceived, with such nonsense. Why, for instance, would the All-Father hand the responsibility of ruling an entire realm to the Midgardian equivalent of a nine-year-old? And how could only half of her body be dead- what, like she dragged half of it around as if it were a bloody doll? Literalists, all of you. Of course, my sister _is_ half dead, but not _half dead_. Bloody fools, bleeding sacks of brainless meat-

Ahem.

As the past goes, Hela was born dead, a stillborn. But her mother would not, could not accept it, and so pressing her own lips to the shell of her daughter, breathed life back in once more. The girl's soul, in the meantime, was halfway across the gate into Thockheim –for that was what the city of dead was called, Darkrealm, before a certain egotistical brat decided to rename it after herself- and so half the infant's soul remained, and half was ripped screaming backing into the world of the living. Hela Half-Soul, she is called. Only half alive, though her rage, over the years, has grown to that of a thousand living. A girl, just a girl, the youngest of three, taken from the arms of her slain mother and standing before the court of her mother's slayer, sentenced to a life of slavery as a handmaiden to the Dead's then-ruler. Wretched girl, ugly grey-skinned, pink-irised, girl, ghoulish girl, sent in chains to the land of the dead. Rage built up into magic, magic which sang in her ice-white veins, magic of two wrathful sorcerer parents, vengeful parents, wretched Jotun parents. (Though, I should point out, her father was then unknown. Nor was she connected to my brother and I- could you blame anyone? We look so different in our un-shifted forms.) And Hela waited, silently, power growing. Growing immensely. As all three of us did.

Which leads us to today.

Hela sat upon her thrown of bones and rotten flesh, her newly claimed sword, Hungursneyd –more on that later- firmly at her side. A pale crown of ash branches, threaded with iron and silver and embedded with pearls, sat on her raven hair, which they say she never lets down, _ever. _ She glared at me, which is unsurprising. The girl glares no matter what the mood. When she is pleased, she glares with happiness. At the moment, she glares in surprise, and a bit of annoyance- I am not yet dead. Nor will I ever be, being immortal and all. She should know this. I give a mocking bow and snark _God save the queen,_ which causes her to grip her sword tighter. An agonizing weapon for which even my new ax, Rifa, cannot match against- and this old gal will cut _anything_, often without provocation.

"What ails you, Fenrir," she drawls, cutting my little song and dance short. "You best hurry, for that weapon's owner will soon be slitting your throat." She says this with a twisting smile as she pictures the deed. Gigantic quim, this one is. But I do not say so, preferring to flash a charming smile.

"The _previous _owner," I say rather proudly, "is dead." Alright, _very_ proudly. It was a long, bloody battle, and he nearly got the best of me in my current, weaker form. Sentiment had saved me, in the end. A quarter of a second's hesitance, and I had torn out his throat. "His blood held much sweetness."

"I have yet to sense Tyr…ah."

"Ah, indeed," I echo as Tyr crosses the iron gate into the newly-renamed land of Hel. He gives me a mournful, reproachful look, which I shrug off after a quick, unnoticed shudder. Damned foolish git shouldn't have _looked_ at me like that, _after all that he did to me_. I spat in his direction as he floated past.

"He lacks his pelt," my sister noted.

"_My_ pelt, you mean."

Another misconception: that I was actually, physically, bound to a rock. Doesn't make sense either- I would have chewed through that ribbon eventually, no matter how many un-things it was made of. I had all of eternity to do it, after all. Rather, the All-Father bound my _true_ form –the Great Fenris Wolf- by ripping my entire pelt clean off of me once I was temporarily incarcerated by that _bloody ribbon_, and what remained, what I could pull together through the pain of being skinned, was a smaller being, an Asgardian-looking fellow; though my teeth were still _slightly_ too long and sharp, my nails a _tiny bit_ too pointed, and my eyes holding _just a dash _of gold in the whites and blues of my eyes. They handed my pelt off to Tyr, God of the Hunt, probably as compensation for his hand. He wore it whole, my head atop of his head, my tail tickling the ground- for after drying it out, my skin shrunk to that of a normal wolf. Or perhaps that was my ego transferring from the old body to the current one. In any case, it was creepy to watch someone drag around my body like that. Especially _Tyr._ Whom I had trusted. Foolish to trust an Asgardian, I know. Foolish, doltish, stupid me.

"And it is gone."

"Gone, eh?"

"To Midgard. Odin, sensing my movement through his pet gatekeeper, has handed it off to a defensive mechanism."

"You're one to criticize pets," she said mildly. I bristle. "Speak slow, now. A mechanism?"

"A type of shield, methinks."

"So cut through it with that," she pointed to my ax with her gloved arm, belying annoyance. "And be on your way. I have a realm to govern."

"It is a shield of Midgardians," I say patiently. "Most evidently powerful ones, as they sent father home as a sniveling _wreck-_"

At this, she stood. Ah, yes, Loki was a bit of a sore spot for her. She hated him, but _oh how she loved him_ and _oh how I would use this for myself_.

"A shattered, gibbling shell," I continued as she descended down her throne to meet me. I tried not to wince before her immense, broiling aura, and failed miserably. "They _did_ something, Hel- la. He put up nary a fight when he returned; simply fled. He is un-right now, instead of his usual wrong self. Behind his mask I sense they have _broken _him." Mostly drivel- the man was mad, not broken, but _oh_, how her eyes narrowed and her teeth clenched. She was lapping it right up. She had never liked Midgard, and how its scholars constantly referred to her as _ugly_ rather than _powerful, intelligent, sly, crafty, resourceful, vengeful. _ Which she was, all of those descriptions- including the first. Unfortunate.

"I will cut them down, my sweet," my voice now vaguely singsong without a particular tune, "_but,_ I need a way in. Open a doorway, and I will trouble you no more."

"No need," she snarled, cape whirling, stance stiff in her rage as sickly sweet visions of her vengeance which would unfold ran through her head, "you will be joined shortly. Three days hence, these mortals will witness _true _hell. Run along, little wolf pup," her eyes, angry and mocking, "whomever you do not slay, _I will._"


	2. I am captured

So, I'm not sure if this matters to you guys or not, but Fenrir pretty much sounds like a slightly more guttural version of Russell Brand put in a blender with Tom Hiddleston. Their voices, I mean. If the physical actors were put in a blender, it would likely just be a bunch of screaming, which makes for terrible narration.

He looks like Ezra Miller with previous description. Why? Google him. His cheekbones prove he can, indeed, be casted as Loki's son. Also because he's hot. Eheheheheh.

Chapter Two: In which the wolf makes the not-so-pleasant acquaintance of S.H.I.E.L.D. by promptly losing his shit, and Fury becomes more pissed off than usual.

Our hero (for the slower human and goblin readers, this would be _me_) finds himself in the middle of a large crater in the middle of a desert-like area. He was wearing a mask now, but we will come to that later. It was not as subtle an entrance as he would have liked –even for one such as him, there were times for subtly-he wasn't Thor and his git band of four- but the area was remote, and so to his liking. The wolf shakes out the cricks in his neck and limbs, for the journey, as expected, had been painful. There was a certain, sick pleasure one feels when his molecules and essence are ripped apart and scattered and hazardously stitched back together again upon landing, but the agony that followed was immense. Had he been human, our protagonist would surely be dead by this point, nerves so overwhelmed that they simply _snap_. Luckily, this glorious, fine fellow was made of sturdier stuff.

So intent on congratulating himself was he, that he didn't notice the plumes of dust forming in the distance. Clouds, he would soon learn, which were formed by mechanical instruments called 'vans.'

_In _said van were four agents of the Midgardian Shield, and a woman. The woman looked the most succulent, but was in fact the greatest challenge. How do I know all of this ahead of time? I don't. Read on:

The van pulled up beside our hero. Two agents step out, and the others wait within the van. One can tell they are of the agent breed, I realize later, by their uniform. They are allowed no colour and are draped in a mostly-black, droll sort of outfit. There are pieces of cloth around their necks for no apparent reason. To hang themselves should they be caught by the enemy, perhaps? The agents each hold a compact magical staff in their hands, which summon thunder in order to shoot out small pieces of iron. It is an odd apparatus, but the iron bits _do_ sting a bit. They didn't use their magic right away, though; first they shouted at me, and I ignored them. I felt no need to _get down on the ground_, as they put it, though I cannot decide if they meant for me to kneel, or if I were simply so attractive that they wanted to have their way with me, right there and then. After a round of shouting with no response, they pointed their iron-spitters at my feet and fired. These, I dodged easily. It occurred to me that if they responded to my arrival so fast, they must know about inter-realm transport- so this made up the Midgard shield? How disappointing.

I decided to punish the first two shields for their impudence by reaching over and ripping out their throats. The first went softly- he had not expected me to flicker toward him so quickly. His neck, jugular, throat all gone and then warm, warm, warm in my hand, the human able to give a look of shock before falling to the ground, blood pooling around him and staining sand like a poppy in bloom. And they say mortals are ugly creatures. In this, I must agree with my sister; everything is beautiful once it dies. But while she embraces the utter _deadness_ of the husk, the maggots and rot and bones squirming with vermin, I paint myself with what made them _alive_, the sweet entrancement of the freshly killed's blood, the blacks and purples and crimsons of their insides, that one last look of _disbelief_ on their faces, no matter what the animal- that their life came to _this_, and no more. It is this that I revel in.

The second had mere minutes for cries of rage and revenge before he joined his companion, half is face torn off as punishment for his impudent struggle. The other two agents ran from their car, roaring and shooting, as any good Berserker would. The woman talks into a tiny black box, saying something about an aggressor in a wolf mask. Right, that would be me. I did not heed too carefully, though, being distracted by the two targets in front of me. In this they had my grudging respect- they did not flee. As my not-claws cut their chests and faces to ribbons, as fluid spurts from their wounds and mouths, as they continued to aim their iron-sticks at me despite proof that they had no effect. They did not flee, as they were supposed to. As prey was supposed to. Otherwise, where was the joy of the hunt?

I licked my fingers clean as the woman comes up behind me. Ah, methinks, now this one I can play with. I had interacted with Midgardian women before, back in the Old Days when I was half my current size and not seen as a threat. I even gained a small religious following among some primitive tribes, although they seem to have mistaken me for a coyote. Two things I had learnt about these females are that a) females are softer and contain more troublesome fat deposits and b) women scream louder. Usually. To their credit, some of the men, even the "bravest warriors," had screamed pretty loudly too. But this fire-headed target couldn't be a shield. She wasn't wearing the uniform.

She presses a silver blade to my throat.

Now, this both surprises and annoys me. Surprise, because I can usually hear soft-sounding things from a good half-mile away if I tried, and can smell them from thrice the distance. But she was one minute by the van and another minute _not_. Annoyance, because I had planned on giving a good roar and then playing Catch and Release as she attempted to flee. Now she had gone and ruined it by turning out to be a trained fighter. Gods, nothing ever goes my way, does it? She couldn't have been a simple fuck-toy for one of the agents, or all of them. Oh _no_, she _had_ to be the alpha of the pack. _Of course she did. Fuck my glorious life. _

"Was I right about the silver thing?" Her voice is low, but not weak, a throaty sort of whisper. "That isn't a Norse myth, per se, but I figure I might try it. Iron has no effect on you, after all." Gods' bloomers, this one was no fool. I couldn't even reach for my ax at the angle she had pinned me.

I muster a low, sinister chuckle to prove that I am an invincible villain. "I'm afraid you are mistaken, my lovely," I say all dark-like. I even gave the posh royal accent a go. She slides the blade over my vein a notch, hard enough to draw blood. Fuck. I was bluffing.

"Why is your blood white?" she asks, looking me up and down almost curiously. Almost. I've had enough interrogations with the royal guard to know one when I see it. "It's because I'm ill," I sputter, trying to summon up enough tear-jerking emotion for her to let me go (or at least loosen her grip.) I try to remember what I'd learned of Midgardian medicine from Thor's last boasting. News travels fast in the Nine Realms, even to Jotunheim. "Yes, you see…there is this, er, plant on your planet, called Mary-wana, and it will help cure my-"

"No," she said. I swear I could _feel_ her roll her eyes, even from behind me. "that's…no."

"N-no?"

Evidently, I am not as good a liar as Loki is under pressure. I try a different tactic.

I make a big show of letting out a long, drawn-out sign. "Awlright, look," I drawl, dropping the posh from my speech, "you've got me. I'm _not_ sick, just not from around here-"

"I can see that," she interrupts. I make a big show of shushing her before continuing.

"I'm from Asgard-"

"No, you're not." She interrupts, _again_, in a bored tone of voice. What _is_ it with this quim? "I've had the pleasure of meeting Asgardians, and they bleed red. She indicated with her knife toward my neck, as if I happened to forget what color my blood was. "You are not Asgardian." This annoys me.

"Oh!" I burst out in an angry tone of voice. But not too angry, wouldn't want another stabby-stab. "Oh, _I _see! You're one of _those_, eh? Thinking us…us _white bleeders_ don't belong on Asgard. Pack us right up and sent us _right into space_!" My voice had risen up to that of a shriek. "You…_you dirty racist_!" 'Racist' was another fun word Thor had picked up from his time on Midgard. I'm not sure where, though. "Why can't you just leave us alone!" I begin to choke my voice up and shake my shoulders up and done to imitate a sob. My job was made somewhat easier since she couldn't see my face.

Fire-head actually _turns me around_ to show that her facial expression read, _Clearly, you are over-doing it._ (Even with the mask? Really? )She looks slightly annoyed at this point. "Alright, let's try an easier question then." Was she really just going to stand there in the muck of her fallen comrades all day with me? She had since moved back to behind my line of sight. I heard movement, and the slight smell of something sick and chemical. "What's _your_ name? My name is-"

_He stood above me. He was big, bigger than the other, and rough while the other had been smooth and silky and false. But this one, from his stubble-face to his large, callused brown hands, this one was not afraid. I smelled no fear off of him._

_He reached over, with no caution, to slowly stroke my head. I could have bitten his hand clean off if I had wanted, but I…I didn't._

"_Hush, little one," he chuckled at my whining. Was that really me? "The others will hunt you no more. You have been assigned to my care." I bared my teeth, hoping to intimidate, letting out a long growl. My greeds were Destruction and Feral Disposition. Did he really imagine he could tame _me_?_

_His eyes merely crinkled in amusement. "So, you are not the mindless beast everyone thinks you are, eh? That's good to know. He stroked my ear, and this time I let him. "Now, what do you call yourself? I am called-"_

"-Natasha. And yours is…?"

"_Fenrir_," I mutter dreamily. Then I fully wake up and realize that I am not in the desert any more. From the looks of it, some sort of cell with clear, glass walls. Natasha is standing on the outside, looking very pleased with herself. Bitch. Beside he stood a small, worried-looking man, who was currently cleaning his glasses in a clockwork-like fashion. But not worried at me, I could tell. He could look me square in the eye if he wanted. No, this fear was _internalized_. Interesting.

Natasha had since continued to speak. "We're lucky to have gotten you here at all, actually. You kept thrashing around on the plane, muttering to yourself," she paused, regarding me as if I were some droll rabbit which she was keeping as a pet for a while. What had I been doing in my sleep, begging for cock? What warranted such uncalled for mixture of pity and condescension? She began again, slowly, tilting her head slightly to one side as if to get a better look at me. To gauge my reaction through my eyes, most likely.

"Who is this..Teer?"

"Tyr?" I grinned wide and feral to bear my teeth, despite the fact that my mouth was covered. "My last _meal."_ I let the last word drip out of my mouth like honey, so as it dropped the full implication set in.

"You're ah, you're actually a wolf, aren't you?" asked the man, who had been quite for some time now. I turned my attention toward him. He quickly focused on the counter to his left, before flicking his eyes toward the ceiling. He seemed to feel the need to constantly distract himself from something, as if he focused on an object for too long, it would consume him. I made note of that.

I gave a tiny dip of my head in a sort of mock bow. "Spot on, mate."

"It's…Bruce Banner, actually. Or Bruce, there's no need for such formalities, I suppose…" he let his voice trail off, his eyes trained on the floor. "It explains the mask, actually." My mask was, indeed, meant to mimic a wolf's countenance. This particular one was set in a permanent snarl, made of iron inlaid with silver, forged until it was almost white. It was not the most comfortable thing –no padding on the inside- but then, we could all use a tiny bit of pain in our lives once in a while, couldn't we.

"Yes, we couldn't seem to get that off," added Natasha darkly. By Mary, she couldn't. I had woven runes into the back strap to insure that only _I_ could take it off. "I apologies, m'lady," I didn't even sound sincere to _myself_ this time. The posh accent had snuck back in as well, "mine face is so fair that it is as if staring to long at the sun. It is for your own safety, I assure you."

Even Bruce rolled his eyes at that one.

"_Your_ safety, then," said the woman, her eyes trained directly onto mine. All friendly pretense was gone from her voice. This, I did not like- her ability to slip faces on and off so casually, like whores' evening dresses, reminded me a little too much of Loki. I dared not move a finger; I was beginning t realize that the slightest _twitch_ could give everything away to this woman. Everything must be _just so_, or she would tear me open as easily as I could a rabbit. I opted to lean casually against the side of the cell instead –not close enough to raise _too_ many alarms, but just enough that Banner took half a step back- and stuck my thumbs into my belt. Rifa, I noted, was still there. I suppose they _wouldn't_ have a way of taking it. Like Mjolnir, it betrayed all who held it except its true master- in this case, it's over-sharpness and need to _cut_ was felt fully no matter where one grabbed it. Objects in their stead, such as welder's tongs, were no different. I noted a bandage wrapped thickly around one of Natasha's hands and couldn't help but grin. She was lucky to still have it at all- usually things were sliced clean off. Admirable reflexes.

"D'you like my ax?" I ask, ignoring her question as I rub my thumb lovingly along the edge. Not a scratch on my person. I pointedly let my gaze linger on her injured hand. The tension turned thick enough to cut with a fork, and I felt a shiver of pleasure down my spine from it. "No," I continued casually, menacingly, "I suppose you _don't_, after such rude acquaintance was made." I hefted it in my hand, studying the cell wall itself. Should be easy enough. "I believe," I drawled, "That a reintroduction is in order-"

"I wouldn't do that," she interrupted.

"And some lessons'n manners," I added darkly as I swung Rifa toward the rounded wall. On a positive note, the blade itself _did_ go straight through, with nary a crack. On a negative note, the _entire fucking cell_ began to shake, and the floor surrounding my cell seemed to melt away, revealing vast, endless night sky. I couldn't help but grab Rifa's handle –which was still wedged in the wall- to steady myself. Banner looked rather green. Was he sick from the turbulence as well? Ah, no matter- it fades. Natasha smiles a smile both mocking and pitying. "I told you," more pity, and a shake of the head "not to do that."

"I don't like you." Said with no vehemence, I swear. It was a simple fact at this point. I most certainly _did not_ like her.

"Well, I'm sorry to-"

A great roaring interrupted her. It was either another human, or a bull troll, I couldn't quite tell yet. By its volume it was approaching, and quickly. A loud clang was heard, and the door slid open –_slid _ I tell you! I wasn't aware doors could do that!- and in walked a very large, very angry human male. By the way that the other two reacted, I could tell that this was the _true_ alpha of the pack. Much like the All-Father, he, too, only had one eye.

"What the _hell _are you jackasses doing?" he asks in a strained voice. A vein throbs in his forehead as he points at me. "Who the HELL IS THIS? I finish a week-long meeting with the board, and they're tryin' to convince me that the Avengers are a bunch of no-good jackasses. And I, putting my ENTIRE REPUTATION on the line, tell them to go fuck off." He takes a long, slow, deep breath. When dragons did that, I remember, it means that they're about to breathe flame. "So I come back, and what do I find. That WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION, Y'ALL HAVE STARTED UP THE HELICARRIER AGAIN, SMUGGLED SOMEONE ON BOARD, AND HAVE SINCE DEFIED ALL AIRFORCE REQUESTS TO LAND THE FUCKING THING. THEY WERE ABOUT TO SHOOT YOU DOWN. I'M SURPRISED THEY DIDN'T. IN FACT, I MIGHT JUST TELL THEM TO TEACH YOUR ASSES A LESSON-"

"They didn't shoot us down because of me," interrupts a new man as he comes through the door. He is shorter than the others, bearded, and has a blue flame flickering inside of his chest. Perhaps he is from Muspelheim? I see no daemon wings, but those could be hidden with the right magic. He holds a glass goblet in his right hand, most probably filled with alcohol if his slight slur was any indication.

"Sorry about that," he adds, though he doesn't sound sorry. "I know a top guy who doesn't want a romantic affair to get leaked."

"What is the meaning of this, Stark?" The Cyclops snaps. The vein has started to throb again.

"The _meaning of this_," he gestures, "is because _he,"_ pointing to me with his glass, "at least according to the myths, is Loki's son."

All four turn to glare at me.

Well.

Fuck.


End file.
